Chop the head off — real good — or — you’ll be sorry, said the know-it-all handyman from across the street.  He was waving around a drippy, sloppy sandwich — talking to us — over here — about snakes.  His dribble-drabble-koo-koo-talk was heat induced —  I’m sure.

Looked like hummus with alfalfa sprouts and a ton of fermented vegetables on some kind of thickly sliced nut bread — not sure if those were sesame seeds or sunflowers seeds — but it was definitely homemade.  Why not just make it into a salad, I blurted out — covering my mouth with my hands — like I was 6 or something —  about to get in trouble in class — about to stand in the corner — all because that girl Augusta wouldn’t give me my new silver crayon back.  And my dress was too short — on picture day!

My twin sister just stared at me — like I was the crazy one.  I wanted to leave — but didn’t — especially since the handyman was so super proud of that severed snake head — acting like he saved us — saying he could save the whole universe — from something — inaudible sounding — if only they’d listen, he said.

You should get back to your work — OVER THERE,  I said.  Telepathically.

Then he starts  pointing out these little white snake eggs.  Have to be careful with these eggs. These eggs are already sending signals to their mom.  

Too bad you didn’t put that in the ground last week, the handyman said —  noticing the tomato plant — I just dropped.